Work Text:
Dick loathes the heat running through his veins, making his skin itch for human contact, making him yearn to be curled up in a nest. He’s better than his instincts, better than his biological drive, but it’s still there, and he knows better than to be out as Nightwing during his heat.
And he wasn’t, his heat isn’t due for another three weeks—he’s carefully not thinking about how he can’t go home to Bruce, and doesn’t want to go back to the Titans, how he doesn’t have any good options, just spending it alone—but he isn’t in a natural heat. He was tired and distracted, only usually when someone gets the drop on him all he gets is his ass kicked.
Being strung up on a wall and injected with a heat inducer is new.
And he absolutely doesn’t want anyone here to touch him, in any way, but his body isn’t quite getting the message. That’s okay, though, Dick hasn’t been a vigilante for ten years by listening to what his body says it needs.
It’s only a small consolation that no one has touched him yet, because they’re not asking him any questions, absolutely ignoring him when he tries to talk to them, and there aren’t a lot of reasons to induce a heat and then ignore the omega.
And Dick knows once the heat is full blown, he’ll probably be desperate for comfort from an alpha. He always pressed close to his dad, and then Bruce, and then to some of the Titans, spending a hazy few days curled up warm and safe.
It’s just. He’s never had to spend a heat alone. He’s not sure what it’s like to not have a safe alpha, not be able to get the closeness and comfort his body needs. It’s all well and good to tell himself he’ll hold out and be fine, but—
Dick is refusing to worry, because he’s just waiting for the right time to slip out his bonds. They haven’t left him alone yet, and he hasn’t really wanted to try dodging through a room of armed men, but the longer the heat sinks into him, the more he realizes he’s going to have to try soon.
Closing his eyes, he braces for the sharp pain of a dislocated thumb, and the bullet or three he’s likely to take—still better than anything else they would do to him—but raised voices make him pause.
“How did you even know he was here?” someone demands angrily, and Dick can’t quite stop the flinch at the sound of anger. Shit, he didn’t think he was quite that far into his heat yet. Heat makes him so sensitive. So vulnerable to the sound of an angry alpha, and he shoves down his desire to placate and please.
There’s a murmured response from someone just outside the room, and the first man says, “Well, the auction isn’t open yet,” and Dick can’t suppress a shiver.
Bruce would come for him, if it came for that, right? He wouldn’t let Nightwing be auctioned off, if only to protect his own identity.
If he even knows, a voice says. You think he’s keeping an eye on you? You think he cares? You’re not his son, you’re a failed partner. And you failed your friends. No one is coming for you.
Dick doesn’t—he doesn’t need anyone, he can rescue himself.
The hushed argument at the front of the room ends when a raised voice, chillingly familiar, says, “You’ll take my price, and say thank you.” There’s no room for another option in that tone, and Deathstroke pushes his way past the man in the doorway. “I’m leaving with Nightwing,” he says, gaze locked on Dick, and everyone is aware he won't hesitate to cut down anyone in his way.
A chill runs through Dick, despite sweat pooling in his lower back, despite the heat thrumming through him. Dick wouldn’t want to face Deathstroke in an open fight, but chained to a wall and in heat?
If he still wore a panic button to the Cave, he’d push it, regardless of what Bruce might think.
Slipping free is pointless, now. He can’t get past Deathstroke, not in an enclosed room. And he doesn’t have a hope that Deathstroke might accidentally kill him during his escape attempt, which would likely be preferable to whatever Slade has planned.
And Dick doesn’t entertain a hope of buying off Slade, not when the Titans all-but murdered Slade’s son. As their leader, Dick knows the responsibility is on him. Really, he knows the fault lies with HIVE, but at the end of it all, Slade’s son was still dead on the ground at Dick’s feet.
There’s a price for everything.
“I’ve made a transfer to your accounts,” Slade says, keeping his eye on Dick. “Do you want to unlock him, or should I just snap the chains?”
There’s a pause, and then someone says, “He wasn’t easy to catch. We don’t want him to escape.”
Slade turns at that, gaze piercing as he says, “You don’t think I can handle Nightwing?”
No one wants to question Deathstroke, and Dick can’t seem to find his voice. Someone slips past Slade, up to Dick, and reaches to unlock the cuffs. For the span of one breath, Dick considers grabbing the man’s gun, only there’s a spark in Slade’s eye that says he would enjoy it, enjoy putting Dick in his place, so Dick—Dick grabs the gun anyways, because he’s never been one to just roll over.
“Sorry, Deathstroke,” he says with false cheer. “I’ve got other plans tonight.” The men in the room freeze for a moment, and then all draw their guns.
“Put those away,” Slade says, without looking back. “If you kill him, I’ll kill you.” There’s a pause, and Slade says, “Now.”
The man closest to Dick backs away as his friends reluctantly lower their weapons, only to be stopped by Slade’s arm. And then Slade’s gun is at the trafficker’s head, and Slade is watching Dick coolly. “You want to fight, Nightwing? He’ll be the first to die.”
“You think I care about any of these assholes?” Dick says, voice only slightly hoarse. He’s having trouble holding the gun steady, heat and need throbbing through him.
Slade laughs. “I know you do. You and the Bat both, you’ll sacrifice yourself for anyone.”
Dick hesitates. These men kidnapped him, induced his heat, were going to auction him, but can Dick let himself be the reason Slade kills them?
“Here’s what’s going to happen, Nightwing,” Slade says, conversationally. “You’re going to put the gun down. You’re going to come with me. And if you try to fight back, or escape, I’ll kill someone.” Dick swallows at the absolute certainty in his voice. “Maybe not this man once we’re gone,” Slade adds. “But there are plenty of people in Bludhaven and I don’t care if any of them live or die. But if you do? You’ll come quietly.”
Dick wavers a moment longer, but Slade’s expression says that he knows he’s won, and Dick can’t find it in himself to prove him wrong.
For a breath, just a breath, Dick considers turning the gun on himself, ending the game right here, but—he wouldn’t put it past Slade to take it out on everyone he loves. Better to let the man spend his anger on Dick.
Fluidly, he crouches and sets the gun down, before straightening back up, never taking his eyes off Slade. Slade shoves the man he was threatening to the side, and beckons Dick forward.
The room is silent as Dick moves forward, ignoring how shaky heat is making him feel. He can push through it. He has to.
Slade turns, expecting Dick to follow him, and Dick does. No one needs to die for his sins.
There’s a car waiting outside, and Dick wordlessly gets into the passenger seat. He has to steady himself on the roof of the car for a moment before getting in, and he’s sure Slade doesn’t miss that moment of weakness. And it’s only going to get worse, his heat not full blown.
In the car, Slade peels off his scent blocker patch and Dick can’t quite fight the shiver as the scent of a strong alpha unfurls through the car. And then Slade reaches for him, and Dick holds himself deathly still as that huge hand comes towards his neck—but all Slade does is peel off Dick’s scent blocker patch, and Dick’s own sweet, caramel scent fills the car.
Dick stares out the window, unseeing, as he tries to master his instincts. The alpha scent, from an alpha his hindbrain knows is strong and capable, makes him want to purr, makes him want to lean over and bury his face in Slade’s neck and inhale that soothing scent.
But it’s fucking Slade, and he thinks Dick killed his son, and he’s going to—
Instead of giving in, Dick holds himself rigid in the passenger seat.
If he can’t cuddle up to an alpha, he wants to bring his knees up and wrap his arms around them, wants to hide his face and try not to think. Wants to be unaware that even though heat doesn’t make him desperate to be fucked, his body is still preparing for an alpha, wet slick forming, and Slade could just—
Dick’s hands curl into fists, nails digging into his palms. Maybe Slade just wants to kill him.
The car comes to a stop, and Dick snaps back into awareness.
Slade gets out, and Dick hesitates. Does Slade want him to get out as well? His door opens, neatly answering that question. He pushes himself up, trying to not wobble on kitten-weak legs. Slade’s alpha scent curls around him, and Dick sways toward him for a moment before jerking himself back.
“That way,” Slade says, pointing, and Dick forces his legs to move. He’s slow, and he’s sure Slade notices, but the mercenary doesn’t say a word, pacing steadily alongside Dick. Dick’s body is flushing, skin slick under his costume. His breath coming a little short, his focus narrowing to one foot in front of the other, don’t pay attention to the smokey alpha scent, don’t let—and suddenly his knees give out.
He doesn’t fall, though. Slade wraps a warm hand around Dick’s bicep, holding him up effortlessly, and a pit opens in his stomach at how his body relaxes at even limited contact from an alpha.
Dick looks up into the face of the man who bought him, who can hold up his entire body with just one arm and no visible effort, and something just—crumples inside of him. He can withstand a lot as Nightwing, has withstood a lot, but when he’s in heat…
It feels like his walls are paper thin, and between Slade’s scent and the alpha’s hand on his arm, they’re torn to shreds.
Dick wants to be in a nest with Bruce, and Bruce doesn’t even care about him anymore. Dick is such an idiot.
Trembling, unable to get steady on his feet even with Slade’s assistance, he suddenly needs to know what’s going to happen to him. “What do you want?” he asks, voice breaking, blinking back burning pressure in his eyes.
“I’ve got what I want,” Slade says, his deep alpha voice sending sparks down Dick’s spine. “You.”
There’s a moment of frozen silence, Dick’s heart beating fast even as his muscles are loose and pliant, and he can’t find the words for another question.
“Can you walk?” Slade asks, and Dick swallows before nodding.
It’s a lie easily disproven when Slade lets go and Dick crumples into a heap in front of him. Breath shuddering through him, Dick wishes Slade would just leave him here. He doesn’t want to find out what the mercenary has planned, he just wants—well, he wants what he can’t have, but he doesn’t want this.
Wordlessly, Slade bends and picks him up, and Dick shivers in his arms, unable to stop himself from curling into Slade’s chest. He feels an urge to apologize for the lie, to explain, to try to placate the alpha, but he manages to bite all his words back. Slade isn’t letting him go, no matter what Dick might say.
Slade carries Dick down the path, up stairs, and through a doorway. Dick doesn’t look around, keeps his eyes closed, unable to keep from reveling in closeness to an alpha even if means—
But he doesn’t let himself think about what is coming next, and how his body is betraying him.
He’s set down onto a bed, and Dick can’t stop the whimper he makes when Slade steps away, a desperate, omega sound. Dick bites down hard on his lip to lock away any other sounds as Slade runs a gentle, soothing hand down his spine and says, “I’ll be right back.” His voice is low, dark, velvet-wrapped iron, and it calms Dick’s body, if not his mind.
Slade leaves the room and Dick breathes for a moment, Slade’s scent overwhelming him, and then he forces himself to sit up. It’s not much, but it’s better than waiting for Slade curled into a useless ball of omegan need. Dick scoots across the bed until he’s leaning up against the headboard, and finally gives in to the need to wrap his arms around his knees and bow his head.
He should be trying to slip out a window, alert someone, but doesn’t doubt for a second Slade will kill people to make his point. There is no way out, not for him. Instead, he focuses on taking deep breaths, trying to clear his head in a room that’s absolutely saturated with alpha scent.
It’s nigh on impossible, and Dick’s eyes are burning where they’re pressed into his knees, his breath stuttering as he tries to keep calm.
But he’s been purchased by Deathstroke, and no one is even going to think to check on him until it’s all over. He doesn’t even know what Slade wants. To torture him? Kill him? Rape him? Slade could do all of that, could take his sweet time, and no one is going to interrupt them.
In and out. Slow, deep, careful breaths.
His body is trembling when Slade steps back into the room. Slade is noiseless, but the swell of his scent makes Dick’s body ache to be pressed close and comforted. He lifts his head up, and sees Slade is wearing casual clothes, no sign of weapons.
Not that he needs weapons to hurt Dick, when Dick can’t even stand up. Isn’t even sure if he can unlock his arms from his legs.
Slade sits on the bed, a scant few inches between them, and looks at Dick searchingly for a moment. Dick feels like an exposed nerve.
“Well,” Slade says, gently. “Here we are.”
Dick stares back at him, shivering with unmet need, terror spilling through his veins. What is Slade going to do?
“Tell me about Ravager,” Slade quietly invites, and Dick tightens his arms around his legs.
“We fought,” Dick says, shocked at how raw his voice sounds. “He attacked the Titans, under HIVE’s orders, and—” Dick’s voice falters.
“Go on,” Slade says, his quiet voice telling Dick’s body he’s safe, when his mind knows he’s anything but.
“You know what happened,” Dick says tiredly. He wants to be angry, he wants to spit out hateful words, but instead he just drops his head back down. “His heart gave out,” Dick says, muffled. “He died.” His chest aches with the depth of his need to be held.
“You’re telling me the autopsy report was accurate?” It’s a simple question, but Dick flinches and lifts his head back up.
Slade has seen the autopsy report? A chill of fear; maybe Dick isn’t the first person Slade has found, maybe—
“How—” Dick croaks out, heart fluttering in his throat.
“Hacked into the database,” Slade says easily, and Dick drops his head back down. His friends are safe.
“Yes,” Dick says, when he’s done blinking unaccountably wet eyes. “The autopsy report is accurate.” Why wouldn’t it be?
A heavy arm settles gently around Dick’s shoulders and his stomach flips with fear and nerves, even as a shudder of sheer relief goes through him. Slade tugs, ever so gently, and Dick can’t make himself resist falling the new inches into Slade’s side, the warm, comforting side of a strong alpha.
Slade’s hand strokes down Dick’s arm once, twice, and then his other hand comes up to gently peel off Dick’s mask. Dick keeps his eyes closed as Slade holds him tight and warm, but he can’t stop trembling, torn between fear and relaxing into the sheer, physical relief of being held by an alpha.
“Then it wasn’t your fault,” Slade murmurs gently into his hair. “It was HIVE, pushing his body too hard.”
Dick nods, fear starting to ease at Slade’s soft tone, reassuring words.
Slade takes one of Dick’s hands and carefully tugs the glove off, rubbing soft, warm circles on Dick’s skin with his thumb.
“It’s a neat story,” he says, breath stirring Dick’s hair. “Absolving you, and your friends, of any fault.”
Dick’s heart starts hammering again. “S—Slade,” he stammers, and there’s a quiet cracking sound—Dick goes rigid as the pain hits him.
One of his fingers is—there’s fire—it’s streaking up his arm, and he can’t—
“Shhh,” Slade says as Dick gasps for air, a high-pitched sound of pain and shock escaping him. He knew he wasn’t safe, he knew it, but his body didn’t know it, and to be hurt by his alpha—“I’ve got you,” Slade soothes in a voice of silken steel, implacable and gentle; a promise, a reassurance, a threat.
He rubs his free hand along Dick’s arm, flooding his body with hormonal calm and safety, a side effect of the touch from an alpha. Dick can’t help it when his body relaxes further into Slade, the pain settling down to a dull ache. Slade is still holding Dick’s hand, the one with the broken—the one he—
Dick’s other hand is fisted into Slade’s soft shirt, and no amount of effort will make it let go. He’s clinging to an alpha, clinging to safety, and he can’t make his body understand it’s a lie.
He needs to fight back, needs to push away, needs to try something, anything, and he can’t. He slumps into Slade’s side, knowing the alpha is going to hurt him more, and he can’t move away.
“I’ve seen the reports,” Slade says quietly. “And I know the story they tell. I’m not interested in that, in the story you made up to make yourself look good. The Titans don’t kill, so of course you can’t admit you killed my son.”
A pause, and Dick presses his face into Slade’s chest, fear stealing his voice.
“But it’s just us,” Slade says, and Dick shudders. “So you can tell me the truth.” His voice is almost coaxing, and if Dick had been lying, he doesn’t think his heat brain would be able to keep lying to his alpha.
“It’s n—not a story,” he makes himself say, and another quiet crack echoes through the room. Dick hisses in a breath, body rigid, white fire streaking through him, and Slade hushes him again.
“I know it hurts,” he rumbles, an alpha bass cutting straight through Dick. “I don’t like it any more than you.”
Liar, Dick tries to think, but mostly he feels pain and guilt and a burning desire to stay close to the alpha. Fuck.
“Tell me the truth, and it will stop hurting.”
Another lie.
“It—it is the truth,” Dick stutters, another crack drawing a sharp cry from him. “Slade, please, it is—” He cuts off when Slade snaps his fourth finger, chest heaving in a soundless gasp. And then he catches his breath, and it hisses back out. His hand is throbbing, agony pulsing with each beat of his heart, and he can’t—he doesn’t—it hurts—
“Richard,” Slade hums. “Be good for your alpha, now.”
Dick can’t stop shaking, his hand a fiery mess of pain and agony, tears leaking out of his eyes, soaking into Slade’s shirt. And still his good hand is fisted into Slade’s shirt, still he can’t stop his body from pressing closer, seeking comfort from the alpha who’s tormenting him.
“A—Alpha,” he gasps out as his body shudders uncontrollably.
Slade sets his ruined hand gently down and reaches up his hands to unzip the back of Dick’s uniform. Dick can’t do anything to stop him, can’t even find the words to object. There’s a soft undersuit beneath the zipper and Slade grabs it between his hands, pulls, and—it tears open. Slade slips his hands inside, his alpha’s hands coming in contact with his skin, and the shock of so much skin contact makes Dick’s heart rate skip, and then—his heart rate starts to slow, his breathing evening out, his shudders shrinking to small, occasional shivers. Slade rubs his hands along Dick’s bare back, soothing him, and Dick hates that it works.
Then Slade carefully, firmly frees his shirt from Dick’s good hand, and tugs the glove off before stroking his fingers along the back of Dick’s hand. A chill runs up Dick’s spine, and he chokes out a wet, “Please,” even though he knows it’s hopeless.
“Tell the truth,” Slade says, and Dick’s chest starts to heave with sobs he can’t quite push down.
“I—I am,” he sobs, his body tensing in anticipation of pain, and Slade sighs under him.
“Do you like it when I hurt you?” Slade asks. “Just tell me what happened.”
“He—he attacked us,” Dick whispers, breathing ragged. Slade hums encouragingly and it feels like the noise reverberates through Dick. “He attacked us,” Dick repeats, more strongly. “And—and we defended ourselves—”
“And?” Slade prompts, and Dick’s throat is tight, his hand throbbing, and he tries to withdraw his good hand from Slade. The mercenary tightens his grip, and Dick tries to—he’s not even sure what, he just doesn’t want to hurt.
“Richard,” Slade says warningly, even as his voice is still gentle, and fresh tears spring into Dick’s eyes.
“I can’t—” he starts, and there’s a quiet crack and a desperate keen escapes him at the fresh agony.
“Fine,” Dick says desperately. “We—I killed him. It wasn’t his heart, we—we made it up.” Another crack and Dick’s body jolts with the painful sensation. “Please,” he begs. “Please stop, I killed him, just—”
“Tell me why,” Slade orders.
“Why?” Dick echoes, and flinches when Slade scrapes a fingernail along Dick’s next, unbroken finger.
“Why did you kill him?” Slade asks.
“He—he attacked us,” Dick answered, almost mindless with fear, seeking relief from the alpha who is—another crack and this time he does try to push away from Slade, but he uses his bad hand to do so, and a shriek tears out of his throat at the pain of weight on four broken fingers. He collapses back into Slade’s side, panting. Slade gently strokes him, soothing him again.
Dick hates himself for it, but he presses closer, takes what empty comfort he can find, trying to focus on anything but the stabbing agony.
“Everyone attacks the Titans,” Slade muses. “You built a Tower, a beacon for all your enemies. Why did you kill him, of all your enemies?”
“There was—there was no other choice?” Another quiet crack, and Dick—it hurts and he can’t compartmentalize like he normally would. He’s dealt with far worse pain, but his body is burning up, heat fully in effect, and the contact with an alpha is only marginally offset by the alarms blaring in his mind that he isn’t safe, that this isn’t a good alpha.
He sobs, broken, into Slade, and the man wraps his arm around Dick, carefully, a painful facsimile of actual comfort, and holds him.
Eventually, Slade says, “Lying isn’t going to get me to stop.”
“The truth hasn’t stopped you, either,” Dick whispers.
A pause, and then Slade abruptly shoves Dick away. Dick cries out, twisting to avoid landing on his ruined hands. His skin ignites into prickles of fiery need, scorching heat pulsing unchecked through him.
“Alpha,” he begs, not knowing if he wants Slade to come back and hold him and hurt again, because at least someone was touching him, or if he wants Slade to stay away, and let Dick ride out a different kind of agony alone.
Dick curls up around his hands, pain spiking through him until he can’t tell what’s from his hands and what’s from his body’s yearning to be held and comforted. Slade scent is still all around him, confusing him, and Dick flinches when a hand lands gently in his hair.
“We don’t have to do this,” Slade offers, and Dick curls up tighter, body shaking, because he doesn’t know how to make it stop. He didn’t kill Grant, it wasn’t their fault, and yet.
He can’t stop crying. He wants to roll over and press into Slade, close his eyes, and pretend none of this is happening. But he makes himself stay away, holds himself back.
“Richard,” Slade sighs, and then his hand lifts and Dick’s body tenses, because he doesn’t know what is happening.
What’s happening is that Slade is—Slade is—
Slade is starting to undress him.
“Please,” Dick chokes out, as Slade gently slides his boots off. “Don’t—please,” he begs, when his zipper is pulled all the way down. “You can’t,” Dick says, panic crashing over him. He’d thought—Slade hadn’t—
“I think you’ll find I can do whatever I want,” Slade replies, and Dick shudders but can’t fight back, not with heat thrumming through him, making him pliant to an alpha, not with his fingers broken and twisted.
Slade doesn’t bother trying to peel his costume off over his ruined hands, he just rips it open down the sleeves, and Dick can feel the shreds of Nightwing drifting over him. Slade rips the undersuit as well, and forces Dick to uncurl so he can pull them both off his legs.
Dick curls back up immediately, feels the sweat forming on his bare skin. He’s naked, but for a pair of briefs, and he knows—he knows what Slade wants, knows what’s coming next—
But what happens is that Slade curls around him, and he’s shirtless, and Dick—Dick melts into the skin contact with an alpha, most of his pain vanishing in an instant, a broken keen escaping him, and he tips his head back and up, pressing it into Slade, baring his throat, and he can’t stop himself.
Dick’s body is uncurling against his will, panic and fear draining out of him, and Slade gently, carefully, fits one broad hand over his neck.
Dick is drifting, he’s floating, the only thing keeping him grounded is the dull throbbing in his hands and a tiny voice screaming at him that this isn’t safe, but he doesn’t even care. Nothing about this is safe, and if he can pretend, for just a moment—
Slade’s hand increases pressure on Dick’s throat, Dick’s pulse fluttering under his hand, and Dick’s breaths are more and more shallow.
“I can give you what you need,” Slade whispers, and Dick whimpers. He doesn’t even know what he needs.
“I can make you feel better,” Slade continues. “You just need to tell me the truth.”
Slade’s hand loosens and Dick knows—knows it’s time for him to tell Slade what he wants to hear but doesn’t even know what Slade wants to hear.
“I’m sorry,” is what comes out of him, his throat sore, his voice hoarse and shaking. “I’m sorry, please—”
Slade’s hand tightens around Dick’s throat, tighter and tighter, until his breaths aren’t shallow, they’re not happening at all, and he’s no longer floating, he’s panicked. He needs air, needs to—he lifts his hands, but he can’t use them, his fingers are broken, and he tries—pulling away just pushes his throat more into Slade’s hands—his heart is hammering, his vision spotting—
And then Slade’s hand loosens, and Dick gasps in air, shuddering, even as he presses back into the alpha, seeking comfort. He never knew being an omega could make him this vulnerable, but he’s already sinking back down, almost drunk on the skin contact and scent, his body determinedly telling him he’s safe, even as he tries to convince it otherwise. Even the pain from his broken fingers is muted.
“Tell me,” Slade says quietly behind him, and all Dick can do is give a broken, scared whine. He can’t even find words, let alone craft a story that will satisfy Deathstroke the Terminator.
Slade’s hand tightens, and Dick’s body doesn’t even tense at first. He’s limp, relaxed into it, and he distantly wonders if he’ll be this placid if Slade decides to fuck him. There’s a small part of him screaming, but it’s locked behind a glass wall, voice muffled and indistinct. And then his air runs out, and the glass shatters, and he’s writhing under Slade’s hand, twisting against his body, trying desperately to remember not to use his hands, only to start to go limp again as soon as Slade lets go.
A few tears slip out of Dick’s eyes as his body breathes deeply, but he can’t fight, not with this much skin contact, not with his hindbrain ordering him to submit and be safe.
There is no safety here.
The next time Slade lets him breathe, Dick chokes out, “Please, stop, it wasn’t—it was just his heart, please, we didn’t—” And Slade closes his hand back down. Again and again, until Dick is dizzy from lack of air as much as hormones.
And suddenly, the warm weight of an alpha behind him is gone, and Dick is sprawled on his back, blinking. Part of him, the terrified, screaming part, drags the rest of him up, and his heart is going so quickly from fear that it almost hurts.
What is Slade going to do next? How will he hurt Dick, for the imagined crime of deliberately murdering his son?
Dick’s skin is starting to prickle again, fiery needles stabbing him for being away from an alpha, but he doesn’t want Slade, he doesn’t, he wants—
“I could do this for your entire heat,” Slade says calmly, and Dick stares up at him, trembling. Begging isn’t going to get him anywhere. “But let's up the stakes, shall we?”
He straddles Dick, looking down at him consideringly. “I could fuck you, but if you’re held out this long, I’m not sure a knot will soften you up again.” A pause, while Dick’s mouth is painfully dry. “Though I’d enjoy watching you scream. Even when they’re in heat, I’ve been known to tear my partners without care.” Dick’s eyes are painfully wide, and he needs to— needs to find the words Slade wants to hear, to stop this, to—
“Did Grant scream when you killed him?” Slade asks, and he runs a caressing hand down Dick’s cheek. “It’s okay, sweetheart, you can tell me.”
“It was—he didn’t—” Dick can’t seem to find any words, Slade’s weight on his hips a terrible promise, but he said—he said something else—and Slade—
Slade moves off Dick, sending stabbing need surging through him for a heartbeat, before flipping him over, painfully jarring his hands, and then running a hand along his spine.
“I can break you,” he says softly. “You’ll never walk again, never fly again.”
Dick holds himself rigid. He’s not even sure he’s breathing.
“Tell me what happened.”
A tremor runs through Dick, and then another, the horror of Slade’s threat slithering through him.
Slade runs a finger up Dick’s spine, and tears spill out of Dick’s eyes, and he whispers, “Just—just tell me what you me to say, please, I’ll say it, I will, I don’t know what you want.”
“I want the truth,” Slade says, pressing harder on Dick’s spine. Dick can’t fight anymore, not that he was really able to fight in the first place. He’s limp on the bed, a damp patch growing under his face, and his voice is utterly defeated when he says, “I’ll say anything you want me to say.”
Slade presses down hard, Dick’s spine aching from the pressure, and says, “I want to know why him, out of all your enemies.”
Dick is already slipping away, this time going down by choice, so he doesn’t have to face what’s about to happen, doesn’t have to feel it. Nothing he says will make Slade happy.
“Damn it,” Slade says, and he sounds angry for the first time, and Dick whimpers apologetically under him, a terrified omega who’s displeased their alpha. “Just tell me.”
But Dick doesn’t bother to respond. He’ll say anything, but Slade doesn’t want anything, he wants a truth that doesn’t exist, and Dick might as well have killed his son, since he couldn’t even save him.
“Damn it,” Slade curses again, low and furious, and the weight on Dick’s back is suddenly gone. He waits for the painful crack, the spreading numbness through his lower body. Without contact with Slade, his body is shrieking at him, and he wants to get up and find an alpha, but he can’t move.
The pain and need spiral; the more he hurts, the more he needs. The more he needs, the more agony spreads through him.
Slade is silent, watching him suffer, waiting for the right moment, or planning something new, or—or maybe he’s just gone, left Dick to suffer alone. Dick doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care. He manages to curl up on his side again, careful of his broken hands, before he loses himself to the spiraling, unrelenting agony of a heat without an alpha.
He isn’t sure how long he lays there on the bed, feeling like he’s burning up, knowing more pain is coming, knowing he’s probably going to die here. His hands throb and his skin pulses, and all he knows is pain and wanting, and he tries to cling to the thread of knowing that he doesn’t want Slade.
There’s a faint hint of evergreen before a cool hand is laid on his forehead and a voice Dick must be imagining softly says, “Oh, kiddo.” Dick knows it’s a dream because Bruce sounds sad, and Bruce doesn’t care about him anymore. There are arms lifting him up, and Dick curls into the dream of being held by Bruce, being rescued, being safe. He can pretend, for just a moment, that Slade isn’t going to touch him again.